‘Euan Morrison,’ Jaz snorts.

‘The price of whisky,’ Bruce says. ‘Man never bought a round once.’

‘We fishermen had a special black place in his heart,’ Jimmy says. ‘Didn’t like us one wee bit.’

‘D’you know why?’ I ask. ‘Why Robert hated fishermen?’

Charlie takes a long sip of what must now be cold tea. ‘His father was a fisherman. They never got on.’

‘You said he’d had a bad past. That—’

‘Aye,’ Charlie says, putting down his cup. ‘Robert was an island all of his own. You couldn’t befriend him. Only time he confided in anyone at all was when he was roaring drunk. You can’t help a man like that till he wants you to. And you can’t ask him questions.’

In the following silence, Bruce leans forwards on the sofa, clasping his knees with his palms. ‘We always got on all right.’ He looks down at his hands. ‘I spent a lot of time over at Ardcraig, helping him with the farm.’

‘And come the peat harvest,’ Charlie says, ‘Robert stepped up same as everyone else, giving a hand to those couldn’t cut their own.’

‘He was always interested in the dig,’ Jaz says. ‘Spent a lot of time over at the standing stones at Oir na Tìr too.’

‘Wait.’ I think of the grass-covered barrow up on the ridge. ‘The dig – the first dig – that was going on the year Robert lived here?’

‘Aye.’ The ghost of a smile crosses Charlie’s face. ‘He was just about the only one not up in arms about it. Which, if you knew him, was a turn-up. Robert had a poker up his arse for just about everything.’

‘Did he ever speak to you?’ I ask Jaz. ‘Tell you anything about himself?’

‘He had an interest in the history of the islands, the Norsemen and early clans,’ Jaz says. ‘It was his hobby, I guess. He was full of questions, and I was an eighteen-year-old student who thought I knew all the answers. He visited Cladh Dubh almost every day.’

Jimmy sighs. ‘Look. None of us liked the man much, but on an island like this, and in a village like this, that doesn’t matter. We work and live together, get on together, because it’s how we survive. You don’t need to like someone to do that, but you do have to respect them. Robert loved his family. He worked hard, and not just for himself. Which counts for a hell of a lot more than a smile and a good sense of humour.’

‘Why did you never tell the police?’ I say, moving onto shakier ground. ‘After he was dead, when Charlie told you Robert Reid’s name was really Andrew? Why didn’t you tell them?’

Bruce’s shrug is almost violent. ‘Robert changed his name for a reason, and we had to respect that. Figured the police would find out on their own if it mattered. After he told Charlie, he begged him never to tell.’

‘Begged is one word for it,’ Charlie says.